that ways a bit, but no pool.” He pointed north along the cross street. “Keep going for a couple blocks to the edge of town. Then keep going maybe five more minutes. You’ll see it right up on a hill like the name says. Can’t miss it. Oh, and so you know, the church with the upside down crosses is another five minutes farther on, right on the edge of the national park.”
“Upside down crosses?” Beetle said.
Buzzcut nodded. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“To see the church?” Beetle asked.
“The church, the graveyard, the slaughterhouse.” His face lit up with an idea. “Hey, you want a guide tomorrow? I can meet you at Hilltop. Five bucks and I’ll show you everything.”
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t know about the legends?”
“What legends?”
“You know you’re in Helltown, right?”
Beetle shook his head.
“So what you doing out here?” Mushroomcut said. “Passing through or something?”
“Or something.”
“Huh,” Buzzcut said. “Don’t get many passer-throughers. Most visitors come to check out the legends.” He frowned. “So you don’t want a guide?”
“No, but thanks for the directions.” Beetle started away, then hesitated. He took his wallet from his pocket, turned back around, and handed Buzzcut a fifty-dollar note. “Split it,” he said.
“Holy Christ! A fifty! Thanks, mister!”
Buzzcut took off down the street, hollering like an ape, dollops of wine jumping from the mouth of his bottle. Mushroomcut followed on his heels, grasping for the bill, telling Buzzcut they had to share it.
Beetle continued down Stanford Road, in the direction of the motel.
The houses he passed reminded him of those you might find at a military base that had long since shuttered its doors and had been frozen in time, forgotten by the world. Most were dilapidated things with weed-infested front yards littered with rusted bicycles and neglected toys and garden equipment. From inside a bungalow bunkered behind a corrugated iron fence, a woman cried out in a bitter, hysterical voice, something about the dog and dinner and “getting off your ass and helping out!” The husband shouted back, punctuating every few words with expletives.
The arguing made Beetle think of Sarah—or, more precisely, his relationship with Sarah, how it had been at the end. It was funny, he thought, how something so good between two people could go so bad. But that’s how it worked, wasn’t it? If he and Sarah hadn’t loved each other the way they had, they wouldn’t have bothered hating each other the way they had.
Beetle had met Sarah shortly after he’d finished Ranger School. He’d already completed Basic Training, Advanced Individual Training, Airborne School, and the Ranger Indoctrination Program. And he’d already been assigned to the 1st Ranger Battalion for the previous eleven months. Ranger School was more of an old tradition than anything else, but it was a requirement for leadership positions within the 75th Regiment.
To celebrate graduating the two-month course, during which he’d managed on less than three hours sleep a night and one and a half meals a day, Beetle and a few other soldiers secured thirty-six hour passes for the weekend. They rented rooms in a Sheraton in downtown Savannah, Georgia, went for dinner at a steakhouse recommended to them by their commanding officer, then moved on to the bevy of Irish pubs the city was famous for. By midnight only Beetle and a guy named Tony Gebhardt remained from the original group of six; the others had either gone off with girls they’d met, or hookers. Beetle and Tony were contemplating calling it a night when Beetle spotted Sarah at the bar. With her dark hair tied into pig tails, and a splattering of freckles across her nose, she was cute rather than sexy, though still quite attractive.
Tony wiggled his eyebrows at Beetle, and Beetle decided what the hell. He went to the bar, waved to get the bartender’s attention, and said to Sarah, “Hi, I’m Beetle.”
“Hi,” she said, giving him a quick up and down. Drinking and smoking were prohibited while on pass, so he was dressed in civilian clothes to avoid drawing attention to himself.
“I know how this sounds,” he said, “but you remind me of someone.”
“Punky Brewster, right? I get it all the time.”
Beetle laughed. Because she was right. She did look like Punky Brewster, albeit a grownup version. “Maybe that’s it,” he said.
“So—did you come over to buy me my drink?”
“Sure,” he said as the bartender arrived. “Coors for me, and put, uh—”
“Sarah.”
“—Sarah’s drink on my tab.”
Sarah smiled at him, raised her blue